Grayscale
by Murmured Lullabye
Summary: Post-TRF. It is ironic that Sherlock, made of pale and black and silver as he is, takes the color of John's life with him when he falls. John/Sherlock. WARNING: contains suicidal ideation


_Grayscale_

**you led me here and then I watched you disappear**

_Shock, _they say. _It's shock._

_ Of course it's shock, _John almost screams at them. _My best friend just jumped off of a bloody building right in front of me. _

It's not okay. It's not. It's not alright.

_John's _not okay. How is any of this supposed to be okay?

In the year and a half that John has known Sherlock, it has never once crossed his mind that Sherlock could actually _die _(would bloody kill himself, fucking hell). It was too human. Pedestrian.

_Dull, _something in the back of his head says. It sounds suspiciously like Sherlock. John chokes back a half-hysterical giggle.

John's not sure how, but he somehow manages to function on autopilot and get himself back to their (but it's not theirs anymore, is it? Because Sherlock had jumped, fell, cracked and broken and dying – _blackredbluegrayivorygonemis sing_dead - ) flat.

It's his flat now, John supposes. God.

And there is the chair in front of the desk, _Sherlock's _chair, stiff and uncomfortable and in exactly the same position as it was two nights ago, and John can practically see Sherlock perched in it, tapping away at John's stolen laptop –

John blinks harshly and tries to push away the blurring in his vision. He is partially successful.

Sherlock can't be dead, if only because the world will never be quite right without him. He took up too much space with his brilliance, even his silences always finding a way to be meaningful and make John feel like an idiot next to him. A world without Sherlock is a world without color – _wrong._

He swept into John's life like a hurricane, uprooting everything and rebuilding it as he saw fit. He'd shown John parts of London that he hadn't even known existed. Sherlock loved London, much as he loved the Work and order and even people, at times. Sherlock loved and treasured things in his own way. Despite his constant denials, Sherlock did care. Not like other people did, certainly, and not about the same things, but that didn't make it any less valid.

Sherlock was intrigued and stimulated by the mysteries of the Work, and John would have bet his life savings that somewhere he got satisfaction out of helping people as a direct result of the Work (_My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?_). London was his home and his world, and Sherlock knew every bit of it, even the abandoned tramways and trash-filled alleys. He never bothered memorizing things he didn't like. Remembering everything was practically a confession of undying adoration from Sherlock. He wanted to organize everything and keep it (reasonably) safe and clean. Even Sherlock's mind was neat, manhandled into the form of the Mind Palace by his stubbornness and need for order, for things to fit into categories and _make sense. _As for people – well. Sherlock would not have spent a lifetime studying something he hated. Sherlock did make connections and care about people, despite his own assertions to his status as a sociopath. That time with Molly in the lab, Sherlock had honestly been trying to help and honestly confused as to why she had run away. That Christmas, after a full three weeks of no cases, Sherlock had started deducing one of Molly's presents and figured out it was for a romantic attachment of sorts. He went up and red the tag and immediately stopped, apologizing to her in a rather Sherlockian way and kissing her on the cheek. Sherlock had regretted his actions had hurt someone. Then there was Greg, who Sherlock had always treated with slightly less contempt than any other officers at the NSY. And John knows Sherlock cared about him. He was bullocks at showing it, certainly, but it was true. They'd lived together for too long and John knows him too well for Sherlock to have managed to hide something like that.

So yes, Sherlock loved. Even if he himself and the rest of the world never recognized it for what it was.

John's mind is scrambling, grappling for a way out of this horror. _"It's just a trick. A magic trick," _Sherlock had said, and then there was Irene Adler, who had faked her own death convincingly enough to fool both of the Holmes brothers. If she could do it, Sherlock certainly could.

But _why? _Why would Sherlock be so desperate as to jump off of a building, survive, and not contact him? He _wouldn't. _Sherlock always took John with him. Always.

There is no denying the reality of this nightmare, not anymore. John has listened to Sherlock's last words, seen him fall, felt his cooling skin and despairing over the lack of a pulse.

It all just feels so _wrong. _

John notices distantly that his left hand is shaking again as he dials Harry and asks if he can stay with her for a bit.

John spends the next week in the spare room at Harry's flat, only leaving to eat or go to the bathroom. He's blank and lost and it's horrible, and John's not even trying to pretend none of those things are true. It's just the way it was before Sherlock except so much worse.

He misses Sherlock's funeral. Mostly because he's not sure if he'll be able to face Mycroft (the man who gave Moriarty the tools to destroy Sherlock, to drive him to _That - _) or the press (vultures, cruel and heartless, too willing to accept a lie about the man who is responsible for taking nearly half of England's enemies off the street) without punching someone. John is on thin ice as it is, being the 'Fraud's' companion, without having to deal with assault charges as well.

Molly stops by to talk to him at Harry's flat and invites him to get coffee. Just to talk, she insists. John believes him. The events of That Day have left them both too raw to even consider something like that. John accepts, if only because he's tired of Harry's pitying gazes. They sit and nurse their drinks in silence. Molly's red-rimmed eyes match his own.

"I just," she stutters out as they get up to leave. "Just – John. Call me if you need anything. I mean it. _Please." _

He tries to smile but can't. He acknowledges her offer with a quiet, hoarse thanks, and takes a cab back to Harry's flat.

He ends up going back to his therapist. She doesn't say anything either way about her thoughts on Sherlock's guilt, and John is pathetically grateful for it. She does what she can, but it's not enough, and they both know it.

John visits Sherlock's grave with Mrs. Hudson next Thursday. She tells him he can keep the flat and she'll lower the rent so he can come back, when he is ready.

He finds himself in front of the headstone and begs, "No, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing; one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do - ? Just for me, just stop it. _Stop this_."

His voice stats cracking halfway through and John doesn't even attempt to try at stop the tears from falling. He waits for an answer. There isn't one. John forces himself to stay strong, nods once, and marches away. Right now, reverting to his military training is the only way John knows to keep himself together.

Molly is waiting in front of Harry's flat. She gives him a watery smile and a travel cup of tea. She sips her own quietly. John stays outside with her until they both finish, when he flees into the building.

John moves back to Baker Street a month later. He can't give up what little he has left of Sherlock. A child grasping for wisps of fog slipping away in the morning sun. He is utterly miserable. John hasn't heard a word from anyone he's gotten to know in the past year and a half except for Molly. Mycroft and Lestrade are silent with guilt, and pretty much everyone else thinks Sherlock was a fake. John is grateful that his own name is forgotten quickly; Sherlock had always been the one who drew the spotlight, despite how much he hated it. Sherlock was _different _in some unquantifiable way, striking in a way that John most certainly isn't.

He takes up a job as a trauma doctor at Bart's, speaks when spoken to, and generally ignores the rest of the world. There are moments when he sees somebody in a long coat or a tall, dark-haired stranger, and his throat closes up and he wants to crumple. John knows none of these…_ghosts _are Sherlock. There's always something wrong. Too clumsy, too casual, too tactile, always too _something. _John would recognize Sherlock anywhere and he's not here. Not anymore. John knows him too well to be unable to notice if he really is.

Does he, though? Does he really know Sherlock? The man beneath the funny hat and long coat and bespoke suits. Before _That Day, _John would have said yes unquestioningly, without a second thought. But now he can't, can he? Not now. Not when Sherlock has killed himself, left his broken, bloodied body lying on the pavement, glorious mind destroyed and lost forever. John never thought he would do that, never saw the darker parts of Sherlock that must have existed.

Sometimes he feels sick, wonders if Sherlock had faked the call to get John to leave so he could carry out his plan. John can't help but torture himself with the _what if_s. He will always wonder if there was something, _anything _he could have done to stop That from happening.

_"You machine!"_

John flinches automatically at the memory. He wishes he could take that back more than anything (except maybe wishing Sherlock alive), longs for a world where that wasn't the last thing he said to Sherlock before that blasted phone call. In his darker moments, John wonders if it was those parting words that forced Sherlock to the edge, to that desolate place where Sherlock felt his only option was to jump.

John cleans his gun daily and keeps it loaded. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to press it to his chin, swallow the bullet _downdowndown _and never know anything else ever again. Mrs. Hudson would be distraught. He doesn't know if Harry would notice. The rest of the world would move on without him and forget. Because that's what John Watson is without Sherlock: forgettable, plain, normal, _useless. _He no longer has a purpose and he hates it. His purpose is dead and gone and never coming back, and there are moments when John wants to do nothing more then follow him.

Some days, he finds himself furious sat the world – at Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan, and Anderson; at Moriarty; at himself, and even Sherlock. John hates all of them in turns (except for Sherlock, John could never hate him) for driving the world's only Consulting Detective to his final solution. When he's angry at Sherlock, it's because the stupid, arrogant tosser has left John here alone to pick up the broken puzzle pieces of his world.

It's horribly ironic that Sherlock, made of silver and black and white as he was, with only the occasional splash of purple or blue, took the color of John's life when he left. With Sherlock gone, the world appears to John in shades of gray, unflattering and horrible and _boring._

And Christ, he just wants Sherlock back. John longs for there to be two tea cups because there are two people, not because John's forgotten he's alone now. He wishes to be racing through the alleys of London after Sherlock on yet another totally mad adventure. John even misses the cluttered kitchen table and the body parts in the fridge. John would gladly, happily accept every oddity of Sherlock Holmes just to have him home again in 221b Baker Street.

But Sherlock his gone, never coming back from the sidewalk in front of St. Bart's. John would be a liar if he said the thought alone doesn't make him want to throw up and hide away from the world for a couple of days.

He moves the gun to his drawer of his bedside table.

**you left this emptiness inside and I can't turn back time**

John hovers in a stagnant state of depression and can't bring himself to move on. He sees Sarah a couple of times. She looks at him sadly and says, _This is harsh, but you have to get over him._

And that, John knows, is exactly the problem. He doesn't _want _to get over Sherlock. John knows the way he's been living isn't healthy. He's not sure he cares, but then John's mind conjures up an image of Sherlock curled up in his chair and glaring half-heartedly at him. Sherlock sighs over his steepled fingers and mutters, _Get out, you're driving me mad. Only one of us gets to stay in all day. _

Sherlock would be furious at him, John realizes. He'd have wanted John to be a functional, happy human being. The bastard. Why else would Sherlock have tried to force-feed him that ridiculous lie, that last, hitched, _I'm a fake_?

He'd been trying to make it easier for John to move on. John wants to punch him.

If Sherlock had thought even for a moment that anything could make something so agonizing as his death easier on John, he'd definitely been a moron.

Damn him. Damn him for thinking that John would ever believe something so obviously false.

Can he do that one last thing for Sherlock? Can he manage to lead a semi-healthy life, even when the most important piece is missing?

John lets out a choked sob. He would have done anything for Sherlock. Still will, really. And maybe, just maybe, John can live for him too, even when he's no longer here. He knows it's not going to get easier. The colors in his once-vibrant world will never return to the way there were when 221b housed two people instead of one. John has never liked taking the easy way out, even if Sherlock did, in the end.

It's miserable and difficult and it hurts like hell, but John starts to interact with the rest of London – the city Sherlock loved, even he would never admit it – again. He ends up at the pub with Mike one week, and sets up a semi-regular schedule for meetings in the coffee shop with Molly. John starts speaking to his colleagues. The few that mention Sherlock in a negative light learn very quickly not to.

Eventually, he stops keeping his gun loaded, but its home is still in the drawer next to his bed.

It's been five months exactly since That Day when John gets the text from Greg.

_im sorry i haven't contacted sooner. very busy. can I come over? need to talk. – Greg L._

Five months ago, John would have ignored the text. But by now his anger has had time to settle, and John can be more rational about it. That doesn't mean he's going to be polite.

_Fine. Say a single bad world about Sherlock and I'll deck you before kicking you out. JW._

John smiles sadly when he notices he's taking to signing his texts the same way Sherlock did.

_i don't believe any of that crap. google #ibelieveinsherlockholmes or #believeinsherlock if you haven't already. _

John frowns down at his phone, but does as Greg suggests. What he finds is – amazing. Touching. It brings up a lump in his throat and he misses Sherlock so much it hurts, but John hasn't been so thankful for something in a long time.

_ibelieveinsherlockholmes _is a social phenomenon, apparently starting only a week after Sherlock's death with the appearance of graffiti (yellow spray-paint, familiar – what was that boy's name, Raz?) all over London, declaring things like _Moriarty was real _and _believe in Sherlock Holmes – don't listen to the lies_. It quickly spread through Sherlock's clients and old acquaintances, even a few anonymous officers in the Yard, gaining support from well over half. People point out that someone with Moriarty's resources could have easily hacked into online databases – and even paper ones – to create a believable fake identity. Perhaps even more convincing is the fact that Richard Brook is Reichenbach in German. John is not the only one that thinks that is too much of a coincidence. _(Some people believe that there is such a thing as coincidence. What dull lives they must lead.)_

There are stories from people Sherlock knew dating back to his Uni days, talking about how intelligent he was, how strange, almost all of them concluding that Sherlock was no fake.

The Yard has reopened all of the cases Sherlock helped with. Many of them have since been closed, verdict unchanged. If the online reports are to be believed, every day is a little closer to conclusively proving what John has always known: Richard Brook was a lie, and Sherlock Holmes was the truth.

Almost before he realizes it, John is opening his blog and typing up a new entry with an almost unfamiliar fervor. He writes about the Sherlock Holmes he knew and the websites he's found. At the end, John links a video from YouTube showing the original London graffiti and adds, _he was my best friend and I'll always believe in him. _

Once John posts this, he texts Greg back.

_Thank you. I can get Sherlock's case notes. JW._

_thank god. need everything to prove this once and for all. be there asap. –Greg L._

John swallows once and walks into what used to be Sherlock's bedroom. Mrs. Hudson boxed the belongings she didn't know what to do with – case files, books, notes. They're all labeled, and John murmurs a silent bless for Mrs. Hudson. He's not sure if he can go through all of these along without breaking down, so he ends up lugging the boxes that should contain case-related material into the living room. John waits as patiently as he can for Greg to ring the doorbell. It happens something like five minutes later, which John uses to get rid of the packing tape keeping the boxes shut.

John considers going down to open the door, but stops when he hears Mrs. Hudson greeting Greg.

"John?" he calls.

"Come on up!" John yells back as he opens the door. Greg trots up the last steps two at a time and smiles a little when he enters the room. It's weak, and uncharacteristically nervous for the DI. John does his best to return it, but something such as a smile still feels uncomfortable and fake on his face.

It must show, because something in Greg's face saddens and it suddenly seems like he has aged years instead of months since That Day. John motions towards the two chairs, still exactly the same as they were when Sherlock was still alive.

John sits down first, taking Sherlock's chair so he doesn't have to deal with seeing someone else sitting in it. "So," John begins, "why now?"

Greg sighs, rubbing at his forehead with one hand. "These past few months have been hell. Sherlock consulted on at least a hundred cases, if not more. _All _of them had to be reopened. Once it'd been proved that those weren't fake, I had to call up Mycroft to get enough evidence and pull to reopen Sherlock's case. Not to mention practically everyone was trying to get me demoted until I proved Sherlock had government clearance far above police cases."

John frowns. "Sherlock had government clearance?"

"Got it sometime while taking cases for Mycroft, I suppose. Sherlock worked with the government for a while before I found him, apparently," shrugs Greg.

That…makes sense. Sherlock would have hated it, though, working for his brother – unless whatever drove the two of them apart happened during that time period.

"So," Greg starts and pauses clumsily. "Shall we..?" He waves a hand at the boxes.

"Yeah," John sighs, and gets up to crouch by the closest one. He opens it and pulls out the first thing he sees: a file filled to bursting with photographs and notes. The notes are mostly on foreign languages and symbolism while the photos are obviously from the Blind Banker case. John passes it to Lestrade. "From when he was trying to figure out the Black Lotus's cipher," he adds.

It continues like this for a good half hour. Sherlock kept everything and everything he'd had a physical copy of for a case. The files were mostly photographs, articles, and biographies. Only a few of them were personally written in Sherlock's distinctive large, loopy handwriting. It's not the most conclusive thing in the world, but it will help explain some of Sherlock's thought processes and establish several alibis.

In the end, Greg packs the most relevant folders – mostly about Moriarty – into a box. "I'll have someone pick up the other ones later," explains Greg.

John only nods. Some tired, resigned part of him withers a bit more at the prospect of forfeiting another piece of Sherlock.

Greg levels him with a kind, sympathetic look. John suddenly wants him to go away, doesn't want anyone else treading on eggshells and swallowing their pity around him. Greg stands and asks, "Can you come over to the station at noon? There are some other things that need to be discussed.

"Sure," John agrees immediately. There are very few things he won't agree with to help clear Sherlock's name. While he may want to punch Donovan and Anderson, going to the Yard is hardly one of those.

"All right. See you then," Greg says as he makes his way to the door.

"Yeah," is all John can give in response.

**no, stay, nothing compares to you**

When he goes to sleep, John dreams of the last time he saw Sherlock. He wakes up gasping for breath, with the remnants of salty tears on his pillow.

_Goodbye, John, _echoes in his ears.

John would punch Sherlock if he could. Didn't he know John would've followed him anywhere?

He still remembers the first months after That Day, when he contemplated following Sherlock into death as well.

There's a Sherlock-shaped hole in his world, his heart. It hurts and aches, and John doesn't want it to go away, doesn't want to give up even that part of the madman's legacy.

John will never regret meeting Sherlock, even though it only ended in heartbreak for the both of them. Sherlock was is best friend – in some ways, still is, really. John will never wish to take back agreeing to be Sherlock's flatmate, even though (as he can see now) it could have only ended in pain. Sherlock…he was everything, after Afghanistan. John recalls his words at Sherlock's gravestone: _I was so alone and I owe you so much. _Sherlock may be a tosser for leaving him here alone again, but that much hasn't changed.

John finds his eyes being drawn back to his laptop, still open to his latest blog post.

Sherlock is gone, but the least John can do for him is clear his name.

John has posted links to almost all of the evidence he can find online. It's time to go to another level, find evidence the Yard probably doesn't even know exists.

It's time to talk to the Homeless Network.

_Wiggins is always around, _Sherlock said once. _She wanders, but she passes by Baker Street often._

And Raz. The graffiti artist who John suspects started _ibelieveinsherlockholmes. _

Now it's just a matter of finding them, or getting them to come to him.

John rips two blank pages out of his notebook, and scribbles the same message on both. He folds up the first and prints _Wiggins_ on the front. He grabs his jacket and leaves it under the door knocker before hailing a cab to take to Angelo's. Sherlock knew Angelo for almost a decade; judging by the vague outline of Sherlock's past John has in his head, he's pretty sure Sherlock would've been living on the streets when they first met. If anyone knows how to get in contact with the Homeless Network, it will be Angelo.

He's greeted at the door by a familiar-looking member of the waitstaff. It's not Billy. "Tim?" John hazards a guess.

The man grins a bit, so John assumes he's got the right name. "Doctor Watson! I'll have a table made up right away!"

John shakes his head. "Sorry, but I just need to talk to Angelo for a bit." He pauses and adds quietly, "It's about Sherlock."

Tim's eyes widen and he nods empathetically. "Right! Right. Just go back to the kitchen, he'll be there. Everyone knows your face, so don't worry about being stopped."

John thanks him quickly and gives a thankful smile before heading towards the kitchen door. He carefully avoids looking at the table by the window. He pauses momentarily as he searches the shapes of chefs behind stainless steel kitchen appliances for Angelo's distinctive silhouette and gray hair. It takes under half a minute to spot him and John walks over as soon as he does. Angelo is just finishing a large pot of some unnamed but delicious-smelling sauce.

"Angelo?" John says cautions as he walks up to stand a little bit behind and to the left of the man. He doesn't want to contaminate the food or startle the chef.

Angelo retracts his spatula from the pot with a showy flick, and turns to regard John with a wide smile. "John! It's excellent to see you again, truly. I haven't seen your face around her since…well, you know. Anything you want is still on the house."

John attempts to smile back through the knife twisting in the ragged lump of muscle that is his heart at the mention of That Day. He's not entirely successful. "Thanks. Listen, did Sherlock ever talk to you about his…Homeless Network? Informants? I need to get something to them."

"My cousin was one, for a bit," Angelo admits, evading the question.

John decides to take it as a yes. "I'll be really grateful if you can pass this on," he says, holding out the second note wrapped in five tenners.

Angelo nods once, takes the money and note from John's hand. "I mean it, Doctor. Anything on the house."

John thinks his smile is a little more real this time, and has to resist the urge to check it in a mirror. "Thank you."

The notes should help. The Homeless Network had been an invaluable part of Sherlock's work, allowing him to do everything from tracking down an assassin to safely moving valuable objects from one end of the city to another. They are a wealth of information. _Sherlock Holmes's case has been reopened. Testimonies and evidence are being accepted at the Scotland Yard. –John Watson_

Lestrade probably isn't expecting testimonies and evidence from a good fifty more people, but he will have to deal with it. John knows it is petty, but he can't bring himself to care.

He is a little more determined, happier, _lighter_ somehow as he walks out of the restaurant. John knows his therapist will disapprove of him getting involved with Sherlock again, but at the moment he can hardly care less what she will say about it. John has a purpose and a goal again, and the feeling couldn't be more delicious (well, it could, but that would require Sherlock, and - ).

Nobody ever says John Watson isn't stubborn, isn't bull-headed enough to force his way to whatever he wants. It's how he got into med school and the RAMC. It will be what helps him clear Sherlock's name. He'll probably need it.

John fires off a text to Mycroft as he takes another cab back to Baker Street. The man owes Sherlock and John more than enough to help with this. The very least Mycroft can do is clear the name he indirectly destroyed.

It won't bring Sherlock back, but it will keep his memory clean and ensure the world honors the memory of a great man instead of spitting on it. Clearing Sherlock's name is not an entirely unselfish goal. Some part of John hopes that doing this will make carrying his memories of Sherlock easier, shrink the burden if they are untainted by the traces of Moriarty and his web of lies. Walking around with the weight of a set of memories differing so drastically from the rest of the world's is…tiring. It's not precisely something he can explain, but it's there all the same.

He sleeps better that night. John still dreams of Sherlock, but it's not That Day. It's his most recent birthday; Sherlock had given him a CD of several of his newer compositions. He'd figured out that the violin helped John sleep without nightmares.

John hasn't been able to listen to it for a while. He thinks he can now, so he pulls out the drawer where he keeps two items. His gun and the CD. John has always had an appreciation for keeping precious things near to him and readily accessible.

His alarm clock doubles as a CD player. John slots in the disk and listens to the gentle, almost sad notes as he turns on the shower. Ghosts of long-fingered hands invade his mind. Despite the warmth of the water, John can't help but remember cold, clammy skin under his finders and a bloodless palm gently curled up, never to touch the violin again.

The song switches to something marginally more cheerful but somehow more haunting as John exits the bathrooms. He has to grit his teeth and fight back vivid memories of Sherlock and That Day. John manages, somehow. He doesn't have the heart to turn the music off now.

It's Sunday. John doesn't have work today. It's ten, and he isn't expected at the yard until twelve. John ejects the CD and shuffles to the kitchen where he sets the kettle to boil and drops two slices of bread into the toaster.

There are no fingers in the fridge. The table is too clean.

There is a CD player by the telly, and John transfers Sherlock's disc into it. If he's careful, he can pretend he is not alone. It's a fantasy, made up by a tired, grieving man, but it's nice all the same.

He heads over to the Scotland Yard as soon as is reasonable. John is still a good ten minutes early when he arrives. No one seems to notice. A series of unnamed officers usher him upstairs to the Homicide Division and DI Lestrade.

John was always amused when someone mentioned Lestrade and his team's division. They dealt with homicide most of the time, certainly, but they frequently ended up working on a particularly interesting kidnapping or robbery case. It was pretty well known that Greg was the only DI capable of handling continued exposure to Sherlock Holmes without spontaneously combusting.

John wishes that it was still funny. He can't laugh about it now. Crime scenes and the Yard used to feel like a second home, but that is no longer true. John's not sure if they ever felt like that, or if it was just Sherlock that made everything more comfortable and somehow more _worthwhile. _

When he reaches the door leading to the team's offices, John is greeted by Donovan. She looks tired and haggard, but John has no pity for her. She wordlessly shows him to one of the conference rooms and shuts the door behind them. Greg is already sitting down and John moves to join him. The table is covered in photos, papers, newspaper articles, official documents, and even a few things John is pretty sure come from medical files. He's almost dizzy from attempting to read and comprehend all of it. "You went all out, didn't you?" John murmurs lowly to no one in particular.

Donovan's phone beeps out a text alert. "Miss Hooper's here. I'll be back with her in a bit," she announces before making a hasty exit.

"So," sighs John, "why'd you call me here?"

Greg's mouth twists into an unpleasant grimace. "Most of the case has been cleaned up in Sherlock's favor. The creation of Richard Brook was well done, but even the best con artist will leave traces of deception when they're crafting a lie this large. Colleagues mysteriously disappearing, the main office of the production company burnt down in a freak accident…the list goes on."

"That's good, right?" John says. He's hopeful that everything will be that simple.

Greg gives him a tired smile. "Yeah. We're just looking for something, anything, really, to fill in some of the bigger pieces. Mycroft is helping, but in the meantime we're working on something else. Greg stops for a moment and shuffles through the papers on the desk. He lets out a quiet huff and lifts his hand, displaying something he pulled out from under the papers.

"Sherlock's phone?" John mutters, confused. Sherlock never bothered to password-protect anything, so why is Greg implying it has inaccessible evidence on it?

Molly and Donovan choose that moment to enter. Donovan stays silent and leans against the shut door, while Molly sits down next to John and greets both him and Greg with as bright a smile as the situation allows.

"Sherlock's phone has government protection on it. All of his texts and calls were deleted from everything except whatever device received them immediately after he sent them. All uploads and downloads of files of any sort – photo video, audio, the whole thing – are blocked too. So we know whatever's on here is original. Problem is, we've got no idea what it is and seven failed passwords in a row wipes the hard drive," Greg explains.

The whole thing practically screams Mycroft, John notes wryly. "He probably but in a random string of numbers, you realize. It may very well be impossible to guess what it is," John points out reluctantly. "But…"

"What is it?" Greg asks, leaning forward slightly.

John's mind is clicking and whirring through possibilities. He wonders momentarily if this is what Sherlock always felt like; buzzing with possibilities, facts, and the puzzle. "Sherlock never bothered to put passwords on his electronics," John says slowly. "He never kept anything too valuable on there. Photos of a crime scene or the victim, maybe, and once I think he had an interview with a suspect recorded on it. But that's all. He would only change that if there was something important on that phone that he'd never want to gall into the wrong hands. Sherlock would have made the password something unexpected by most people, but there's at least one person that knows what it means and what it is. But _who?_"

"You sound like him," Greg observes quietly, something bittersweet playing around the corners of his mouth and eyes.

John gives him a tremulous smile in return. "I know his methods."

"Oh!" Molly exclaims suddenly as she starts to dig through her purse. "I had no idea what it meant at the time, but - !" she flicks open her phone and taps at it furiously a couple of times before handing it off to John. It's a text, sent just under half an hour before That.

_6/16/2012 10.30am_

_When you want to be obvious, look to the heart. John's birthday: 11/28. SH._

John knows what the password is now, but that's not the important part. It suddenly all makes sense and fits together neatly in John's mind.

_I'll get you a candle. It's more romantic._

_I'm not his date!_

_Girlfriend…no, not really my area._

_I need to get some air; we're going out tonight._

_Actually, I've, uh, got a date._

_What?_

_It's when two people who like each other go out and have fun._

_That's what I was suggesting._

_No it wasn't. At least I hope not._

_Will caring about them help save them?_

_Nope._

_Then I'll continue not to make that mistake._

_Not much cop, this caring lark._

_I'll burn the heart out of you._

_I've been reliably informed that I don't have one._

_But we both know that's not quite true._

_Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side._

_John, I meant what I said. I don't have friends. I've just got one._

_Alone is what I have, alone protects me._

_Take my hand!_

_Goodbye, John._

John has always known that Sherlock cared, but somehow he'd never made the connection that he cared about _John. _He had often felt like a loyal dog following its owner when he was with Sherlock. But at the same time, he'd always ignored those little hints of affection in favor of the few times Sherlock lost his composure, simply because they didn't materialize as they would from any other person. John was so _stupid. _He'd never been 'just convenient' to Sherlock, or 'just a friend'. The detective had cared – but he'd been terrified of that, too. If Sherlock Holmes was scared of anything, it would have definitely been feelings.

He remembers how Sherlock outwitted Irene Adler – deducing her heart, which she had used as the key to the most important thing in her life. He remembers Sherlock, so fond of puzzles, so honest and mercurial at the same time, and thinks about what Sherlock meant by using John's birthday as his password.

Well, if he's honest with himself, John already knows.

Sherlock Holmes loved him.

It showed in all those little things. The way Sherlock always took time to make sure he ate while they were on a case. Sherlock had always hated his girlfriends, no matter how nice or smart they were. He could remember several occasions where Sherlock thought there was a high possibility of one or both of them dying and subsequently made sure that John would not be there. There had been times when Sherlock had put John above the Work. Those bright, warm smiles that no one but John ever saw. The birthday and Christmas presents. The frequent, blatant, and overly forceful (even for Sherlock) denials of love and emotions. The nonexistent denials when people assumed they were in a relationship. The genuine apologies and worry.

Christ.

As for John – he – he'd never thought about a man like _that _before. But Sherlock…John could admit in his own head that the man had been beautiful, interesting, and brilliant. Mad and frustrating in turns, yes, but a man with a wonderful heart behind the brain for people who knew how to look for it. His girlfriends had all dumped him because they couldn't deal with Sherlock's role in John's life. John always put him above them. He always came first. And honestly, John would have never willingly moved out of 221b and away from Sherlock, even if he somehow became serious with a woman.

The night after their first meeting with Moriarty, John had collapsed into the couch immediately after stumbling up the seventeen steps to their flat. He woke up ten hours later to find Sherlock half-sitting on the floor, slumped against the cushions under John's waist, one thin hand gently cradling John's wrist.

And now John knows what he didn't then: he would have liked to keep that. Sherlock curled up next to him, both of them safe and warm and taking comfort in each other. Eating at Angelo's on a proper date. Maybe – kissing him, even. Kissing Sherlock Holmes.

Some part of John must have known he wasn't a perfect one on the Kinsey scale and recognized the intangible _thing _he had with Sherlock that was so clear to the rest of the world but so confusing to the two of them.

He thought they'd have forever to figure it out.

Its hell, knowing that Sherlock probably knew exactly what he was feeling that whole time. It would have been beyond painful. Was that what drove him to That Day, loving John from a distance and terrified of it, watching and believing he couldn't touch?

John is barely aware of his surroundings. He's numb to everything except for the trembling in his hands and the tears behind his eyes he has to fight back.

God, _Sherlock. _

_This is your fault. If you had figured it out sooner, you both could have been happy, _something hisses in the back of his head.

"You okay there, mate?" Greg asks cautiously.

The voice snaps John out of his mind and back to the present. He struggles to keep his composure. "Yeah. Fine," he responds automatically, and hands over Molly's phone.

Greg scans the message and sighs with quiet understanding. He slides Molly's phone back to her as he turns on Sherlock's. He hesitates momentarily, and punches in the four-number code. A quiet click lets them know they guessed correctly. Greg shifts his grip on the phone sideways so all three of them can see the screen. A text box pops up instantly.

_Recording complete. [Play] [Cancel]_

Greg presses _play _without hesitation.

The recording is high-quality with only a little feedback and the tinny quality of the phone's small speakers interfering with the audio. Some sort of music is playing – possibly from another phone, judging by the shoddy quality. It sounds somewhat familiar, but it's hard to place. And then it begins.

_"Ah, here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock, and problem, the final problem: staying alive! It's so boring, isn't it? It's just…staying. All of my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you."_

The fact that it's Moriarty on the recording isn't all that surprising. But Moriarty never defeated Sherlock; he did that hims—oh.

_Oh._

It had never been suicide. It was murder.

With that simple fact, the world makes more sense, like it's suddenly righted itself slightly after having been tilted upside down. Sherlock never killed himself; Moriarty had murdered him and set it up to look like a suicide to keep Richard Brook's story intact for a little longer.

_"And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them. Ah well. Did you start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"_

Sherlock speaks up on the recording for the first time. Hearing his voice again is both a fist in the stomach and his favorite type of tea. _"Richard Brook."_

_ "Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do."_

_ "Of course."_

_ "Attaboy."_

_ "Rich Brook in German is Reichenbach. The case that made my name."_

_ "Just tryin' to have some fun…Good, you got that too."_

Got what? John wants to scream.

_"Beats like digits. Every beat is a one, every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me – hidden inside my head. A few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."_

Once again, he is confronted by the fact that Moriarty and Sherlock were on an entirely different level from the rest of humanity. It's humbling.

_"I told all my clients; last one to Sherlock's a sissy."_

_ "Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty."_

A momentary pause and then, _"No, no, no, no, no this is too easy. This is too easy. There is no key, DOOFUS! Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless. You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."_

_ "But the rhythm –"_

John can't hide his flinch. Sherlock sounding so confused (vulnerable) is probably one of the worst things he's heard. Even at the pool, Sherlock was always in control. Listening to that careful composure crack is not something John's ever wanted to do.

_"Partita Number One, thank you Johann Sebastian Bach!"_

_ "But then how did you –"_

_ "Then how did you break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison? Daylight robbery! All you need is some willing participants. I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it."_

_ "Do it? Do – do what?"_

Something unpleasant heaves in John's stomach.

_"Yes, of course. My suicide."_

_ "'Genius detective proved to be a fraud.' I read it in the papers so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales…and pretty Grimm ones too."_

_ "I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."_

_ "Oh just kill yourself. It's a lot less _effort. _Go on. For me. Pleeeeeeaaase?"_

Sherlock's voice is breathy and shocked in a way John has never heard before. _"You're insane."_

_ "You're just getting that now?" _Moriarty whoops cheerfully after he speaks. _"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't."_

Distantly, John recognizes the sound of Greg sucking in a shocked gasp. None of them have been expecting this.

_"John."_

Oh God.

_"Not just John. _Everyone."

_"Mrs. Hudson."_

"Everyone."

_"Lestrade."_

Bloody hell.

_"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested. You can torture me. You can do anything you like with me, but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die, unless…"_

_ "Unless I kill myself. Complete your story."_

_ "You've got to admit that's sexier."_

_ "And I die in disgrace."_

_ "Of course, that's the point of this."_

John is shaking again. Trembling. He doesn't think he'll be able to stop this time.

_"Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop. Go on. I told you how this ends. Your death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers. I'm certainly not going to do it."_

Sherlock's breathing becomes shaky enough that the rasping edges of it can be heard through the recording. John's heart pumps, pushing out unending pain in time with his blood.

_"Would you give me one moment, pleas, one moment of privacy. Please?"_

John knows the phone call will be next. He's not sure he can handle that. Not after listening to this, not after realizing the full extent of what he's lost.

It doesn't come, though. Instead, Sherlock starts to chuckle lowly, and slowly becomes louder.

_"What?" _Jim snarls. _"What is it? What did I miss?"_

_ "'You're not going to do it.' So the killers can be called off, then. There's a recall word or a code or a number. I don't have to die…if I've got you."_

_ "Oh! You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"_

_ "Yes. So do you."_

_ "Sherlock, your big brother and all the king's horses couldn't get me to do a thing I didn't want to."_

_ "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you, prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell, I shall not disappoint you."_

Sherlock sounds both threatening and awe-inspiring. But John knows how this ends. No matter how strong Sherlock is, that won't change.

_"Nah. You talk big. Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."_

_ "Oh I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."_

Sherlock was neither angel nor demon but both, a halfling that decided to live in order instead of chaos.

_"No, you're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you. As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends, you've got a way out. …Well good luck with that."_

The sound of a gunshot firing almost startles John out of his seat. There were no bullet wounds in Sherlock's body when he fell. Moriarty's body was never found, but that is the only explanation: he killed himself to force Sherlock into jumping.

The recording plays the sound of Sherlock dialing someone. John slumps back into his chair and braces himself for what he knows is coming.

It's John's voice, next. _"Hello?"_

_ "John."_

_ "Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"_

_ "Turn around and walk back the way you came."_

_ "No, I'm coming in."_

_ "Just do as I ask. _Please._"_

He squeezes his eyes shut. John can still recall hearing the frantic tone for the first time with perfect, devastating clarity.

_"Where?"_

_ "Stop there."_

_ "Sherlock?"_

_ "Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."_

The horror has not weakened either. _"Oh God."_

_ "I-I…I can't come down, so we'll…we'll just have to do it like this."_

John can still hear the beginning of tears in Sherlock's hitched voice. _"Okay, shut up Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"_

_ "Nobody could be that clever."_

_ "You could."_

The short burst of laughter is heartbreaking. The tears are obvious now. _"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."_

_ "No. All right, stop it now."_

_ Now, stay exactly where you are! Don't move."_

He'd been afraid Sherlock would jump if he came closer. It's almost ironic, looking back. _"All right."_

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"_

_ "Do what?" _John wanted to deny the obvious now, too.

_"This phone call…it's, er, it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

_ "Leave a note when?"_

_ "Goodbye, John."_

_ "No. Don't – "_

The recording ends there. John draws in a series of gasping breaths, trying to block out the images of what happened next _(garnet-red blood, reflective and spilling across hard pavement, pale blue-silver eyes clouded over and staring out into nothing, ivory skin cold and lifeless). _John opens his eyes and gazes wildly around the room looking blindly for something to anchor him to the present.

Warm, gentle hands grasp his own. "-kay. John, listen to me. Breathe!"

_Breathing, breathing's boring._

His senses are foggy and muddled as if he's viewing everything from very far away. Emotions twist and lash out inside of him like alternating tongues of white-hot fire and cubes of dry ice. There's too much to deal with. John distantly notices that Molly is leading him out of the Yard and bundling him into a taxi. He knows he should be moving or speaking or _something _but it's too much effort and he's not sure he knows how anymore. It hurts so much but there's no wound. No blood flow to staunch. No infection to clean out. No way to fix it.

**I can't let you go**

John spends the entirety of the cab ride huddled into the seat, staring out the window but seeing nothing.

He's having difficulty breathing again. He's not sure if he wants to. Not in a world where everything that matters has slipped through John 's finders like so much smoke and realized its importance only after there's no hope of getting it back. What's the point, really? The colors are gone, bled out and lost on the sidewalk alongside Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Sherlock had drawn people in like the cliché of moths to a flame, even if they'd hated him. The world watched and loved to hate him, intrigued despite its best efforts. And that had been the people who hadn't even _liked _Sherlock. The people like John – Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, Greg, _Moriarty _– who had been invested in Sherlock even before that draw, had no hope at all. They'd all fallen for him in some form or another.

Irene loved Sherlock for his mind. Moriarty for his challenge. Greg for his abilities. Molly for who he could've been. John…

John just loves Sherlock the man, the human with all his flaws and quirks and failings. It may very well be a permanent state of affairs. John had seen this happen often enough to soldier and their wives both; simply loosing the ability or the will to move on. There isn't always a way to go forward because sometimes here is nothing to motivate you to do so. Sherlock is one of those things. He was so different from the rest of the world, set apart by well-known and indefinable qualities alike, as incomprehensible as the reflections of a shattered mirror to most. A toppled-over statue crafted by Michelangelo, once breathtaking to everyone who saw it but now only interesting to those who could find the pieces of beautiful things amongst the rubble. Most of the world would just see something that needed to be repaired

There would've been no fixing Sherlock. There'd been nothing wrong with him, not really, just different. Just because he hadn't fit into the outline of society didn't mean he had to be rebuilt. Helped to connect with other humans, maybe. Needed someone to be there who never expected him to always be strong, certainly. John could've been those things, he knows, if only he hadn't been so oblivious. It's too late now. He's lost essentially everything because he was too slow on the uptake.

He glances up dully as the cab stops. It's Baker Street. Molly sends him one of the sad little smiles he's gotten so used to recently and John knows she understands at least mentally what he's going through. She probably knew how Sherlock felt long before he did.

Molly must see the unasked question on his face, because she says softly, "It was – three months after you'd moved in, I knew for sure. I knew him better than anyone at the time. Maybe even himself." She forces out a stressed, tittering laugh that ends on a vaguely hysterical note. "I never said anything because you. You were always dating some woman or looking for the next one. And Sherlock…it would have killed him, you know, if you'd left. He'd been happy with what he had. Hoped to keep it forever, I think, even though he knew that'd never happen."

The things he should be saying clog up John's throat and stay there. Finally, he forces out, "I wish someone had. Told me. Maybe then…"

_Maybe this wouldn't be happening. _

John has been through war; he's never thought he believes in happily ever afters. But now he can see all the _what if_s, and some of them are painfully close to that fairytale ideal.

"I have to go," mutters John, tossing some bills at the cabbie before he forces his way out and stumbles up the stairs. He collapses into his chair and tries to think of nothing at fails miserably, of course. Sherlock is always in his thoughts, and he doubts that will be changing any time soon, if ever.

He's not exactly sure how it happens, but he ends up in Sherlock's room. Mechanically, on auto-pilot, John watches his hands tear open a box holding some of Sherlock's clothes. He roots through the pressed dress outfits until he finds a cashmere scarf so dark a purple it almost looks black. It was Christmas gift from Greg last year. Sherlock wore it surprisingly often. Greg never saw it, of course.

Sherlock had been sentimental in his own ways and John wasn't sure if the man had ever actually realized it. It makes his heart swell painfully with something he's a little afraid to define.

John clutches the scarf close to his chest and inhales deeply. His nose is assaulted by a scent that is nothing but _Sherlock. _Chemicals, unscented soap, and the minty-pine that was his deodorant. If only for a moment, John can turn back time to before everything slipped away and pretend it's Sherlock he's wrapped up him and not his scarf and smells he's left behind.

Eventually, John will pick himself up and force himself to look forward. For Sherlock, if nothing else; for the man who sacrificed his life so his friend might survive. It will not get easier. The pain will not dull. But John is strong, and while he may not thrive, he will live.

There are no happy endings here. Only an ocean of regrets and the bitter aftertaste of wrong turns. John made his mistakes, and now he must ride out the consequences. There are no more second chances.

**after loving you I'll never be the same.**

_(In ten months and thirteen days, John will discover that is not quite true when he opens the door. But until then, it is his life.)_

Note: the section headers are lyrics from _Never Be the Same _by Red.


End file.
